Classically
by IronIsraeliButterfly
Summary: Gibbs goes on an undercover mission and learns more about one of his other teammates than he would have ever believed.


_Classically _

_Summary: Gibbs is assigned an undercover mission at Georgetown University as a music professor,_

_And Ziva reveals a painful part of her past that only he can help her with. Gibbs realizes that its now the melody, but who makes the melody. ZIBBS. A very long one-shot._

_A/N: If you do not really like classical music, it is not a big deal, you will manage throughout the story and it does not play that big of a role. You just will not recognize the various pieces mentioned. And no, I am not a classical music professor. It's my way of relaxing after a very difficult day... Also, I'm assuming Ziva's in her early to mid thirties. Anyone know how old Cote is? Cause Michael Weatherly's forty-three. (Yikes...)_

Gibbs sat down at his desk and opened the black CD case that was sitting there. The CD case was filled with CDs, tens of them, maybe even a hundred, of just classical music. Gibbs had a clandestine ardour for classical music; he worked on his boat to the intricate rhythms, keeping time perfectly as he sanded, nailed, and sawed. He loved the music of Beethoven, Handel, Bach, Mozart, and Mendelssohn. He revelled in Grieg, delighted in Saint-Saens, and exhilarated in Schubert. He could appreciate the complexities of Scarlatti and the beauty of Tchaikovsky. Now, his silent infatuation was being exposed to the world as he entered as an undercover agent into the world of university music. Jenny had not known, of course, that he elated in classical music — she had just assumed he could fake it and give several lessons to fifty college sophomores about music.

As he caressed a copy of Pachabel's _Canon in D_, Ziva came over to his desk. "Director Sheppard said you are going undercover."

He nodded.

"What do you know about classical music?" she challenged him.

He raised his eyebrows. She sighed, and began singing a couple notes. He continued in a low, deep voice, finishing off perfectly. "That was too easy, Ziva, everyone knows _Valse Triste."_

Ziva began, and he stopped her. "1812 Symphony? Pick something obscure."

She attempted one more time, but he cut her off after six notes. "_Papageno's Song_ is not obscure, you should know."

"For your information, Special Agent Gibbs, most people, when enumerating Mozart as their favourite classical composer, do not remember the operas."

He began to quiz her, but she did was not to be outdone. "_Tales from the Wien Woods?_ I love that piece."

"_Flight of the Bumblebee._"

"_Dance of the Hours._"

"Oh, that was such a good movie!" Tony said. "But why are you trying to steal my movie spotlight, Zee-vah? Crazy ninja chick not good enough for you?"

"Boss is going undercover as a professor of music in Georgetown."

"What do you know about the Beatles, boss? Or the Black Eyed Peas?"

"I used to be a big fan of the Beatles," Gibbs mentioned quietly, remembering who he used to sing "Pretty Woman" to many years ago. "And folk music."

"Really, boss? Like Joan Baez, and Bob Dylan and Pete Seeger?"

Gibbs nodded. "And Jimi Hendrix and Led Zeppelin and Bonjovi. But I am being a _classical_ music professor."

The excited look on Tony's face fell. He had been so excited that Gibbs had finally shown some interest in pop culture, albeit from eons ago. "So what do you know about classical music, boss?"

"Who wrote _The Trout_?" Gibbs challenged him. Tony shrugged.

"Schubert."

Ziva warmed up to the challenge. "Who wrote _Eine Kleine Nachtmusik?"_

Tony thought, and supplied, "Beethoven?"

Ziva, Gibbs, and McGee, who had been watching ever since entering the bullpen a couple of seconds ago, began laughing uproariously. "Mozart." McGee supplied.

"Okay, McMusical, so who sang _Extra-terrestrial?"_ Tony tested McGee, as Tony was peeved that he could not supply any of the answers and was looking rather defeated.

Gibbs stood up, and before McGee could reply, he said, "Katy Perry," and head-slapped Tony, off to find more coffee.

Abby was feverishly trying to hack into a computer at the back of the classroom where Gibbs would be teaching before the lesson would begin. She had watched him knot his tie, which she had been rather surprised he possessed, earlier that morning and throw on a jacket when he came in to get the list of his new students. They had all wished him luck in his new job.

Now they were under the direction of the esteemed, law-abiding, Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo, who was busy watching a pirated copy of _The Fighter_ on his computer. Ziva was doing some translation for the upper echelons of NCIS, and McGee was playing a game on his computer, looking frustrated as he tried to proceed to the upper levels. Elflord was not faring well, it appeared.

As Ziva completed the complex French translation that was vying for her attention, Abby burst into the room and grabbed the remote for the big screen, instantly displaying a classroom in Georgetown University where students were filing into seats.

"Ah, the wonders of being young," Tony mused. Just then, Gibbs burst into the classroom, a cup of coffee in his hand, looking neat, starched, and pressed. He placed his coffee on the desk and surveyed the classroom, his eyes narrowed. One could have heard a pin drop.

"My name is Professor Jerome Smith. I will be taking over for Professor Downing while she has been held up, unfortunately, on an extended holiday. I am assuming that for none of you, this is your first exposure to music. However, this is probably your first time experiencing the depth and wonders of classical music."

They all smiled, having never heard him say so much at once. "Bach. Mozart. Handel. Beethoven. Schubert. These names are more immortal than ever, as their music continues to speak to us when the poorly written and fitted words cannot. You can feel the sun rising in Grieg's _Morning Mood_. You can see an elegant swan sailing on a still lake in _La Cygne, _from _The Carnival of the Animals_. Who was that written by?"

A blonde-haired girl who was sitting in the front raised her hand eagerly. "Name?" he asked her. She seemed so excited to answer the question.

"My name is Michelle Pierre," she said, her French accent clearly evident.

He nodded. "Who wrote _La Cygne?_"

"Camille Saint-Saens, sir," she responded.

He nodded. As he proceeded into the lesson, it became clear that Leroy Jethro Gibbs was not only an amazing team leader, he was also a teacher in every sense of the word. He seemed to take music, in all of its complexities, and make it so simple. The students seemed to understand, and then the lesson ended.

When Gibbs came back into the office, the tie hanging over his shoulders carelessly, the briefcase dangling in his left hand and the coffee cup in his right, they were all waiting expectantly for him. "What?" he asked. "No one has any work to do?"

"No cases yet, boss." Tony informed him.

Gibbs grunted and swung the attaché case onto his desk, and took a look at the notices on his desk. "David, you're due for a weapons recertification."

Ziva nodded. "Yes, I received the e-mail this morning from Cynthia."

"Let's go."

"Now?" Ziva asked.

"We should wait for a case?"

Ziva obliged and followed Gibbs out of the office. When they arrived at the shooting range, Ziva turned to Gibbs.

"This is rubbish; both you and I know it."

He raised his eyebrows.

"My skills as a shooter are as likely to atrophy as yours, Gibbs."

"This is the procedure." He said, slightly exasperated.

"Since when do you care about rules and procedure if they are not yours?"

He looked at her, hard. "Ziver, is something wrong?"

"No." Her negative response had been too quick. He instantly knew there was something wrong, that something was nagging at her.

"What is it? I'm here for you, you know."

Ziva refused to answer, her lips taut. "Let us just finish this and —"

"No," he took the gun away from her. She did not even resist. "We are not starting this until you tell me what's going on. You don't act up, Ziva. Did your father call?"

Ziva shook her head, but tears pricked at her eyes, and then, one fell down her cheek, but she made no move to push it away.

"Does it have to do with my undercover job?" he asked, trying to think what would elicit such a reaction from his calm, level-headed Ziva.

Ziva nodded.

He looked at her in surprise, and then it dawned on him. "The music."

She nodded again.

"Abby hacked into a computer at the back of the classroom to see what I was doing?" he asked. "Did the piece I play have any significant memory for you, Ziva?"

He sighed, thinking of _The Swan of Tuonela._ He remembered how much Shannon had liked it. He knew that there was much of Ziva's life that he did not know, because she was a very private person and did not like to share details of what she had previously done in Israel, in the army, in Mossad. She barely shared any details of her childhood, just like Gibbs had resisted doing. They were people who kept things to themselves.

Ziva sighed. "Once upon a time, Gibbs, I was married."

He had not been expecting this, to say the least.

"His name was Raviv. We met in the army. Raviv and I got married right after I joined Mossad. It was such a happy wedding; Tali was still alive, and Ari was there, and my father had just been named deputy director. He was a happy man then, who cared about his children. My mother had died several years before, but she was the only one missing. My uncles and aunts had come. We had a child, a boy; his name was Chaim, life. But one night, I put Chaim to bed and he never woke up. Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, they told us." Ziva took a breath and continued. "A month later, Raviv returned to the army, went to Lebanon, and was shot three times in the head. Three years after my dream had begun, it ended suddenly. There was nothing to live for. Tali was killed a week later, and then I became an assassin." Tears began pouring down her face. "Everything changed after Raviv died. My father became heartless and cruel. Ari began working for Hamas. And I was blind to it all. Then they sent me here... and I... I... did the most terrible thing. I killed my brother. _The Swan of Tuonela _was Raviv's favourite piece." She finished off.

Gibbs was silent. And then he held her close, realizing the pain of the young woman which she had carried in her heart for so many years, not talking about it. She seemed to operate so well. He rocked her back and forth, trying to communicate what he felt; how he understood the pain she was going through.

"It will never be the same without my little boy," Ziva sniffled. "When you asked me if I wanted children, I could not answer you."

Gibbs nodded. "I understand, Ziva. I can't believe you never said anything."

"The pain never goes away."

He sighed. "I know."

She reached into her pocket and pulled out her wallet. Inside was a small picture of a younger Ziva, a tall man with dark hair and brilliant blue eyes, and a little boy with dark hair and the same blue eyes, who looked remarkably like Ziva and the man. Another picture showed the same little boy sitting on a lawn, engrossed in a board book.

"Just like his mother," he chuckled, smiling at the faded photographs, when Ziva looked so much happier, so much younger, and so carefree. "He was a beautiful little boy."

Ziva nodded. "I sometimes... can't believe it's all over, that it is gone."

"How long ago was this, Ziva?"

"Eight years ago."

He never knew that Ziva had been through so much. He had never known that Ziva had gone through pain just like his own, never knew how much she had suffered in her young life. Her light had gone out like his had, though his had been snuffed out brutally twenty years before. He silently returned her gun to her, and she prepared to shoot for the target.

"Can I begin now?" she asked.

He nodded.

She shot.

She shot again.

And then she turned to him. "Gibbs, when you remarried so many times, was it because you wanted to bury your past and then go on?"

He nodded. "Didn't really work," he said ruefully. "I couldn't forgive myself for their deaths and it spilled over into all my other marriages. I just expected them to be as wonderful as Shannon, and I never was honest with them."

Ziva nodded, listening. "I vowed never to remarry because I didn't want to betray their memories. I think now that that was foolish. Ari told me I was being stupid."

Gibbs laughed mirthlessly. "We are both complete fools. I remarried people I didn't love. And you wouldn't marry."

"Every man seems to betray me in some way. Just when I think I like them, when it's getting serious, something goes wrong. It's like Raviv is telling me that I can't go on, that I'm destined to be his widow forever."

Gibbs pulled her close. "Don't ever think that, Ziver. I'm sure there's a man out there who would never leave you."

"Like who?" Ziva challenged.

Gibbs thought for a moment, wondering if he should tell her the truth. If he should tell her what was constantly on his mind, and how much he tried to put in the back of his mind. How much he had tried to ignore that nagging thoughts and how much he willed himself not to say anything, just to be the boss and not let anything else happen.

Ziva looked at him expectantly.

"I would never leave you, Ziva," he murmured, stroking her hair.

Ziva looked up at him, tear tracks all over her beautiful face. "I was hoping you'd say that, Jethro," she susurrated, burying her head in his chest. "I was just waiting for you to say that. I never thought you would."

A couple of nights later, Gibbs and Ziva were sitting on her couch, snuggled together, "watching" television, him murmuring sweet nothings into her ear, and every few seconds she laughed. He loved the sound of her laugh, something he was barely able to hear, and most of the time when he was able to hear that majestic sound, it was stilted and forced. Now, it was free and unencumbered, like a bird in flight.

After the program ended, Gibbs got up, pulling Ziva with him. "Dance with me."

"I don't know how to."

"Just follow my lead," he said.

"I always do," she replied cockily.

He went over to her CD player and slipped in a CD. Within a few seconds, the sound of Johann Strauss's "Roses from the South" began to resound through the room. He pulled her into the dance, a slight smile across her face.

"Jeth..."

"Yes, Zivee?"

"Nothing..."

"Well, I'll tell you something..."

"What?" she asked, looking up.

"I love you."

Ziva nodded. "I love you, too." And there they danced, feeling perfectly at home and safe in each other's arms.

The end.

_Pssst... After you read, review! It would be much appreciated._


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